That Sneaky Bugger
by PrairieLily
Summary: A fluffy story in three chapters - complete so will be uploaded within the week. Sherlock Holmes has a plan, and he needs everyone's help to carry it out. Obviously I own none of these characters, no copyright infringement intended. Just some Sherlock/Molly fluffiness with a bit of Mrs. Hudson and John humour thrown in. Sherlock/Molly.
1. Chapter 1

"What the hell are you on about now, Sherlock?" John Watson asked bluntly.

The two best friends stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street, only months ago newly renovated and restored since the so-called "patience grenade" had leveled the place they had called home. So much had happened in this place. Life changing things had happened, some for good, some… not so much. But mostly good things, not the least of which were the most recent additions of Rosie, John's young daughter (nearing a year and learning to walk – much to John and Sherlock's chagrin – and delight), and occasionally (though more often than not lately), Dr. Molly Hooper, longtime friend and "it's about bloody time, Sherlock!" girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes.

"A plan," the detective said simply.

Dr. Watson knew his best friend far better than that. "Bullshit." He said simply. "This is more than a plan. This is more than a mere experiment. Look, I'm your best friend, you are my daughter's god father, we have been to hell and back more than once together. You can't lie to me Sherlock Holmes. You," John said, taking a step towards Sherlock with raised eyebrows and an accusatory finger jabbing in his direction, "are up to something."

"Oh, probably," Sherlock simply said, playfully. He glanced over at the empty client chair. "Any interesting cases knock on the door lately?"

John scowled at him, his brows furrowing with exasperation. He wasn't sure if this emotional awakening since the incidents at Sherrinford and Musgrave - Sherlock, Mycroft, and apparently, Euros's childhood home - had been a blessing, or a curse.

Sherlock Holmes was certainly simpler to figure out as an emotionally one-dimensional man. What was it Euros had called them? Complicated little emotions? Well, if it was the feels, as some on the Blog comments had called them over the years, Sherlock had certainly recaptured them. All of those complicated little feels.

He had found his emotions, long since buried in a well, as it turned out, with little Yellowbeard's best friend, Redbeard. Victor Trevor. John winced at the memory of finding the child's skull under the well water in which he was trapped. His stomach lurched at the realization that they were not, in fact, dog bones. John had scolded himself. What kind of a doctor are you anyway, Watson, to not recognize a human child's bones from those of a bloody Irish Setter?

John shook his head mentally back to the present, and found his impatience patiently waiting for him. "No, Sherlock. Not a one. Not a single case."

"Oh good!" Sherlock declared, clapping his hands in excitement. "Then this gives us opportunity!" The glee in his voice was enough to draw Mrs. Hudson from the next room.

"Anything I can help with?" she asked. "As long as you remember, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson was far more observant of the human condition than anyone knew. She knew something was up with Sherlock, something with his manner lately, the way he even took his breakfast, with appetite and true enjoyment. The way he would actually smile and give her a peck on the cheek… like a son would, before departing for his daily business. She was half expecting for him to start calling her "Mum" as he left. Mrs. Hudson didn't mind. Sherlock and John were the sons she USUALLY wished she had had.

Sherlock had been in love for quite some time, and she knew bloody well with whom. Why, anyone with eyes and a lick of common sense could see it, except, ironically and until recently, Sherlock himself. But what, she wondered, did Sherlock have in store for Molly Hooper? Whatever it was, it was deliciously romantic, in Sherlock's own strange way, and she wanted every part of it she could manage. After all, she had held the man at gunpoint at his lowest level, forced him into the boot of her car (a rather mean thing to do, he would tell her when the lid was opened), led the local coppers on a small high speed chase… and begged John Watson, in tears, to help him, and threatend to cut him out of her life completely if he didn't.

Sherlock's expressive brows furrowed for a split second.

"Yes, actually. I believe so. Mrs. Hudson, I have a list of shops to contact. If you would be so kind as to call them and make arrangements on my instruction… well I'm conducting a few experiments. Just… calibrating my deductive abilities as it were. It's necessary now and then, to keep me sharp. A lady's dress size, her shoe size, etc. It's all in the name of… science. I must ensure that I am able to… judge… that is to say deduce… small details."

Mrs. Hudson was almost convinced that Sherlock's intentions were purely scientific. Until he hesitated. Science in a pig's ass. He was up to something, and she would bet her entire fortune that it had to do with his intentions towards one Dr. Molly Hooper. She held her hand out and Sherlock handed over a wad of bills. "That should cover it, I hope." He grinned impishly. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and headed out, reading the list of things to do that had been handed to her with the money.

John crossed his arms and raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Well. Apparently I have the day off. Is there anything that Rosie and I are supposed to do, Sherlock? Any little errands? Because I know you, and I know you well. Give me the list. I know you've got one for me as well, you presumptuous bastard."

He wasn't entirely surprised then to be handed a small slip of paper, with a short, but detailed list of things to do. His eyes widened slightly to see that there was a second slip of paper, addressed to Rosie.

"Try on dresses in larkspur blue until your father tires of it and just decides on one. He chose your mother, so I know he has exceptional taste. Also, try on shoes that will not only compliment the dress, but will be easy for your little toddler legs to maintain balance in. Of course, if you must crawl, you must crawl, you will still get to where you are going. You have a very important mission, Rosamund Watson. I have every confidence in you to carry it out successfully. Love, your god-father, Sherlock Holmes."

John shook his head slightly, smiling in resignation. He held out his hand, and Sherlock handed over a wad of money that he estimated should cover the expenses of the day. Whatever his best friend had in store, it was going to be very, very interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2, a bit shorter, but if you have been enjoying it at all, just a bit of my past habits. I haven't published in years and have only written NCIS fics until now. I've never been the type to post an incomplete story. EVER. Give it a day or so and you will have it completed. I don't hold back for reviews... that's just tacky. I write for my enjoyment, and as other authors here, to satisfy the itch for canon twists that either haven't happened or we don't have the patience to wait for. From a Canadian fan, love, Prairielily._

With Mrs. Hudson, John, and Rosie all departed on their assignments, Sherlock sat down in his big squishy chair. So many observations to take note of, so little time. So many things to book… he had been pre-occupied with his romantic partner, Molly Hooper, for quite some time. And her increasing look of sadness and longing had taken awhile for him, the Great Detective of all people, to figure out. When it hit him, he felt like a dolt who should probably be kicked square in the nuts.

Those lunches at their favourite restaurant, where she would nearly always at some point lose focus on their meal time, to gaze longingly out the window. Sherlock, finally too curious to bear it, took the opportunity to excuse himself and then return, coming from behind her, bringing his face town to kiss her temple and looking through the window slyly, straight at what he deduced was her angle of vision.

Bringing flowers home to 221B twice per week, different ones each time, to gauge her reaction. He thought he had a winner. The bouquet with the cut larkspurs seemed to be a favourite.

Sneaking into her desk when she would have to leave her office while he was visiting, officially or otherwise, and noting the telltale wear and small, circular water marks – dried tears? – on certain dog-eared pages of a certain genre of magazine.

But the best – the big one – was making sure Molly was there to assist him in "recalibrating" his ability to observe female style and deduce their dress size. He almost felt heartbroken at her reaction to seeing the set of three wedding gowns he had set before her, requesting that she try them on in order to help him "recalibrate his powers of observation". But, he felt confident in the result of this particular mission. Indeed his heart was counting on it.

Not being a fool, he would casually asked her to try on her favourite first, as that would most likely suit her figure and give him a base for mental calculations. Or so, he would tell her.

He had known the style and the dress from the wear on the pages of the bridal magazine in her desk. He had known the shop from the boutique she had routinely stared at longingly, unable to help herself, and was grateful that they seemed able to get that particular dress in. He was relieved when she chose first the one he thought she might based on the magazine. THAT would certainly save him a lot of time and agony…

And this was where Mrs. Hudson and John came in. Ordering everything once he had decided… booking the places, the people, indeed the only thing they could not guarantee – though if you asked Mrs. Hudson she would have bet them the month's rent that she knew damned well and could guarantee it - would be Molly's answer.

Sherlock decided to wing it and try for a ring style that was, admittedly, inconclusive - based upon observations past the jewellery shop and the dog-eared certain pages of the magazine.


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm rusty... and apparently I'm just as impatient as I used to be... I had intended to post this over the next few days... OOPS. So now it's complete! I hope this short little effort has been enjoyed. All I know is for Sherlock fans like myself, it's going to be a LONG couple of years, if there is even to be a Season 5. I do have one more story that I need to refine, one I needed to get off my chest Post The Final Problem so will contain spoilers... will follow probably within the week. As with this story, that one is complete. I wish I had the skills to write the really good ones. Love always, Prairielily_

Molly had held her breath and tried not to cry when she saw what Sherlock needed her help with. Well, in spite of his emotional growth of late, learning how to express how he really felt about her - he could still at times be emotionally clueless. Her favourite dress sitting before her was likely a coincidence. It was a damned good thing she loved him, and knew that he felt the same way for her.

Why on earth, though, a wedding gown? There were plenty of other ordinary, everyday dresses for her to model for him so that he could keep his powers of deduction and estimation sharp.

So, she had retreated to the bedroom and donned the first one, her favourite. The one she longed to wear for real, standing next to Sherlock at the altar. She stood in front of the mirror, but couldn't quite bear to open her eyes. The fit was perfect, aside from the skirt being a bit long. Clearly Sherlock hadn't lost his touch when it came to estimating a lady's dress size.

Sherlock waited patiently in the living room, trying not to think too far ahead to the moment that was nearly at hand. He heard the bedroom door open down the hallway, and held his breath as he saw Molly approach him. God, but she was beautiful. She clearly also had an eye for what looked good on her. For a scientist, someone who was practical and did not entertain much foolish thought towards fashion, she had an eye.

"Well?" Molly said, trying to keep her voice from catching. She looked up at him, waiting, desperate for him to say something – anything – before she burst into tears.

Sherlock looked down at her, speechless. Finally, he managed to find his voice. "Beautiful," he muttered softly. "Flawlessly, exquisitely beautiful." A snapshot image of her standing before him at an altar came to him. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the image before snapping back to the present. Enough was enough, time to just ask her already.

"Perfect," he said, this time loud enough for her to hear. "Absolutely perfect. Thank you for your assistance, my darling. Now I do have a question for you. Well… two questions actually, but whether or not I ask the second will depend upon your response to the first." Molly raised an eyebrow, exasperation and curiosity colliding. She was floored when he suddenly dropped to one knee in front of her.

"Molly," he said, his deep timbre voice sounding like pure velvet, "you know I love you, and I have found myself able to love you as time has passed, more and more as you have deserved to be loved. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life growing old with you." He took a breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, shiny object. Molly's eyes grew huge and tears welled up uncontrollably.

"Molly Hooper… will you marry me?"

Molly's knees grew weak and he caught her as she landed on them in front of him. "Yes," she said simply, tears beginning to flow freely now. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I will marry you!" Sherlock slipped the ring onto her finger, a near perfect fit – he would have to work on recalibrating his estimates on jewelry sizes, he mentally noted – and taking her face gently in his hands, leaned forward to kiss her.

"Now," he said, unable to stop smiling, "I have one more question. Will you marry me tomorrow?"

Molly's eyes grew large. "Tomorrow? Isn't that sort of… short notice? I mean there's so much to do, so many things to book…"

"My darling," Sherlock said, laughing softly, "you forget that you are going to marry 'The Great Detective'. Mrs. Hudson and John have already taken care of some of the arrangements. The main thing I needed was for you to choose a dress, and to try it on, determine alterations if any. Oh… and flowers. You needed to choose the flowers."

She thought about it and suddenly all the pieces fit. Of course there was the now obvious ruse with the dress she still wore. There was also his odd behaviour in the restaurant when he would come up from behind and kiss her. He was looking to see what she was staring at through the window. And the flowers, all the flowers. Bouquets twice per week. It was a lovely gesture of love and romance, but she had never guessed he had ulterior motives behind all of those sweet, occasionless gifts. Of course, she now realized - he was gauging her reaction, deciding what she would like to be surrounded by at her wedding. And the bridal magazine… why it hadn't been in the same spot in the drawer she had placed it carefully in, a few times.

"No, Sherlock. The main thing you needed from me, was to say yes." She grinned at him mischievously.

Sherlock smiled bashfully, almost sheepishly. "Well… yes, of course. I was reasonably certain that you would. Of course there were no guarantees but it was a calculated risk. So, I ask you again my love, will you marry me tomorrow? I once had a seamstress as a client and she owes me an extra favour. She is at the ready to look after any alterations to your dress, though the fit does seem to be perfect save for the skirt length. The flower arrangements are simple enough that the florist can have them ready if I let him know…" Sherlock glanced at the clock, "ummm… right about now. Mrs. Hudson will look after assisting with your makeup and hair, and John is already out and about confirming a few last minute bookings and shopping with the flower girl."

"Tomorrow," she said. "Well… no time like the present, I suppose! But Sherlock, how do Mrs. Hudson and John know to run these errands today? Now? How do they know that this wedding is on? They aren't here, they may have guessed you would propose while they were out, but don't even know yet that I've said yes."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Um yes… well… I may have… texted John after you said yes. Remember how I was texting at Rosie's christening? Like that."

Molly thought back at her sharp elbowing of him at the christening, when he was, as usual, distracted by his phone, but had learned to operate it with one hand, behind his back, on the sly. She giggled. The sneaky bugger.

"Soooo… John and Mrs. Hudson will be out for a while then, won't they?" She had reached over and begun to trace a finger on his chest, circling the buttons on his shirt. The new ring on her finger glistened in the sunlight that poured through the window, a sparkle coming to her eyes and a whimsical expression of innocent mischief that was anything but innocent overtaking her face.

"Yes, most likely." He grinned, catching on quickly to the gist of what she was getting at. "They have several shops to visit. I estimate they will return in approximately 2 hours, factoring in traffic and lineups, and whether or not Rosie needs her nappy changed or wants a snack… a margin of error of approximately 17 minutes. Why?", knowing damned well why.

Molly gave him a come-hither look that he knew all too well by now.

"Well… this dress is a bit difficult to get out of by myself. Would you care to help me with it?"


End file.
